


take and eat my body like it's holy

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Multi, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-12-27 00:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18293228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: "Lovett," Emily says again, knocking gently on the wooden frame. "Can we come in?"Jon exhales, throat dry. Nothing happens for a brief, tense moment, and then Lovett says, thin and high, "You're already here, so what the fuck, right?"





	take and eat my body like it's holy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moogle62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/gifts).



> set nebulously near the end of 2017. title from "sunday candy" by donnie trumpet & the social experiment. thanks to r for the quick beta!
> 
> moog, you were a pleasure to write for! i know this isn't exactly something you asked for specifically, but i hope i was able to fit enough of your likes into it as possible. ♥

"He _what_?" Jon says.

Ronan sighs. It's Saturday evening, not too late in California yet, but edging toward it on the east coast. He looks tired on the screen of Jon's phone, pale and wan, like he's been pulling too many all-nighters in a row. Jon knows for a fact that he has, considering everything Lovett's said about him in the past few months. It's probably why he isn't making sense right now.

"Jon is... impaired, let's put it that way," Ronan says.

"Drunk?" Emily supplies, peeking over Jon's shoulder and giving Ronan a quick wave. "We can pick him up if he doesn't want to get a Lyft home. He could've just called us."

Ronan scrubs a hand over his face. "That's not it," he says. He pauses for a long moment, sighs again. "It's hard to explain. I was on a Skype call with him, and we were playing through Diablo together—"

"Cute," Jon interjects, and Ronan's mouth twitches upward.

"I could tell he was distracted. And I thought maybe something had happened at the office, or Pundit was being needy, but then—" Ronan shakes his head, briefly at a loss, which is uncharacteristic enough that Jon sits up in his seat. "Jon, he said it happened once, before, back in DC." A pause, and then: "He said you helped him with it."

Jon blinks, uncomprehending. "It?"

Ronan clears his throat, gaze flickering up to Jon's shoulder—Emily's face—before sliding back down toward Jon. "Sex?"

"Um," Jon says, stiffening. Emily goes kind of still next to him. This definitely wasn't a topic he was expecting to have to relitigate over the weekend, but here they are. Jon and Lovett's former arrangement is the kind of thing that brings back pure sense memories from years ago: the hot pant of Lovett's breath against his cheek, the give of Lovett's skin beneath his fingers, the way they stuck together, sweaty and tired, after. It was hard to date anyone seriously or even hook up when their hours were so erratic, but the two of them kept mostly the same ones, so they helped each other out sometimes. It made sense.

Jon's stomach sinks when he remembers what Ronan must be talking about. Emily's been privy to the broader strokes for years by now, but—not this. Not the weekend after their first State of the Union, when they were already running on fumes, and Lovett's body decided to betray him.

Jon swallows around the lump in his throat. "I didn't know he told you about that."

"It's come up a couple of times," Ronan says, in the blandly measured tone that he's perfected after being in the public eye for so long, the one that makes Jon reflexively want to pick at it, even though he knows he shouldn't. Some stones are better left unturned. Ronan's voice is steady but his mouth twists; he's worried. Jon's familiar with the feeling, especially when it comes to Lovett. "Anyway, I'm still in New York. I booked a flight, but it won't land until tomorrow morning." Another pause, Ronan's eyes cutting away and then back again, the other shoe dropping: "Can you check on him?"

Jon's heartbeat pounds in his ears, once, twice. "Sure," Emily says, bright, and Ronan gives them something a little too tight to be a smile before he ends the call.

 

 

These days, they live a seven minute drive away instead of across the street, which gives Emily enough time to get most of the details out of him.

"I don't know if it's the same thing," Jon says when they pull up to the curb in front of Lovett's house, tires crunching against the pavement. It probably is, if Jon's being honest with himself, but he won't know for sure until he sees for himself.

Lovett had been weird for a couple days after the first time, too distant and too polite, but then the needs of the country butted into the bubble of Jon's thoughts, like they always did. They'd gotten into an argument over dangling modifiers in some NASA speech Lovett was working on, and then they'd gotten wasted with some other staffers at Bullfeathers at the end of another long week, and things had gone back to normal. As normal as they could be, anyway, with a coworker turned friend turned fuckbuddy.

In some ways, Jon feels closer to Lovett now, as far removed from the swamp as they can be in the mellow suburbs of Los Angeles, even though they haven't touched each other with the same kind of fervor in years. That's what happens, Jon guesses, when you keep choosing each other over and over again. Funny how these things work.

"Well," Emily says, sliding her hands thoughtfully through Leo's fur. She turns to peer out the window at Lovett's house, the overgrown lawn, the familiar landing strip of the sidewalk leading to the door. "We'll see."

Jon clenches his fingers just a little tighter around the steering wheel, flexing against the dark leather, before letting go. "Yeah," he says, and turns the car off. "We will."

It doesn't look like any lights in the house are on, and there's no answer when Jon rings the bell, though he can hear Pundit pawing at the door. Emily fishes Lovett's spare keys out of her purse, hands them over so that Jon can let them in. It's quiet inside apart from Pundit's soft whining. Jon crouches down as the door clicks shut behind them, scratching at her ears.

"Hey, Pundo," he whispers, bending forward to kiss the top of her fluffy head. "Where's your dad, huh?"

"Lovett?" Emily says, stepping further inside, voice carrying. A quiet creaking noise floats down the hallway leading to Lovett's bedroom. "Are you okay?"

They move into the kitchen first. Emily had put some stuff in a plastic bag before they left the house, and she unloads it on the counter now: Ibuprofen, a six-pack of Gatorade, the black box that lives underneath their bed. Jon fills Pundit's water bowl in the sink on autopilot, and both dogs shuffle over to lap at it when he sets it down on the floor.

Emily pours a glass of water out from the Brita pitcher in the fridge. She shrugs when Jon raises his eyebrows. "Better than Diet Coke."

Jon laughs. He wishes it didn't sound so forced. Emily shoulders her bag, a determined look on her face, and Jon bites his lip as he follows her through to the dark hallway. The door, when they get there, is slightly ajar, and this close Jon can hear Lovett's breathing from the other side, the restless shifting of fabric.

"Lovett," Emily says again, knocking gently on the wooden frame. "Can we come in?"

Jon exhales, throat dry. Nothing happens for a brief, tense moment, and then Lovett says, thin and high, "You're already here, so what the fuck, right?"

 

 

At first glance, Lovett looks mostly normal, if a bit pinker than usual. Jon's pretty sure that's how it started back in 2010, too, Lovett getting more and more fidgety as the days went on and he didn't get what he needed. Jon always wondered what Lovett would've done if Jon hadn't offered to help. By that point, Jon had already discovered that sometimes Lovett didn't want to have to ask, wanted someone to already know implicitly, in his heart of hearts, what he wanted. That was one of the times Jon had gotten it right.

Emily slides over to the edge of the bed and passes Lovett the glass of water. Lovett makes a face, but he takes a long gulp. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, after, and sends Emily a smile. "Thanks," he says. He's still pink.

She sinks down, knee nudging against Lovett's leg beneath the sheets. Lovett doesn't stiffen, exactly, but his spine straightens. "How are you feeling?" she asks, even and curious, like she could be inquiring about the state of Pundit's grooming schedule. "Ronan asked us to stop by."

"I told him not to say anything," Lovett says miserably. Jon doesn't recoil, but it's a near miss, and then Lovett continues, words tripping over each other: "I told him not to tell you, and then I told him to do it, and then I—" He takes another sip of his water, hands trembling.

"Hey," Emily says, glancing over her shoulder at Jon, face shining with concern. "We can go. Ronan's on his way. We don't like seeing you like this, and we want to help in any way we can, but if you don't want us to be here, we can leave. Whatever you want."

"Please stay," Lovett says, voice very small. He closes his eyes for a moment, throat working. There's a fine sheen of sweat on his skin; Jon remembers, faintly, the way it tasted. "It's just—embarrassing, but I'll get over it."

"Will you?" Emily asks, dry, _have you ever gotten over anything?_ hanging unspoken in the air between them. Lovett's mouth curls upward. Emily hazards another glance at Jon before forging ahead. "What is _it_ , anyway?"

"I don't know," Lovett says with a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "I don't know. Sometimes I just need—too much, and the longer I wait the worse it gets. Other people get shingles, you know? Or like, those seasonal allergies."

"Some allergies," Jon says, syllables crunching like broken glass. Lovett's eyes lock on his, wide and dark and a little bit terrified, before he tears them away with a sharp sniff.

"Lovett," Emily says. She reaches out slowly and hooks their pinkies together. Even that small point of contact makes Lovett's entire body shiver. "What do you need?"

Lovett looks at Jon again, tension running through his body like he's a bowstring pulled taut, waiting for release. In a way, he is. That's what this is all about. "He didn't tell you about it already?" Lovett says, squirming back against his pillows.

"He did," Emily says, soft but firm. "I want to hear it from you."

When Jon looks down, Lovett's clutching Emily's hand so hard their knuckles have turned white. He opens his mouth, takes a deep breath, and says, "I need you."

 

 

The last time this happened, Lovett had been frantic by the time Jon bundled him out of the office and back to his old apartment on 16th Street. He'd pressed Jon against the closed door, hands and mouth wandering everywhere, clothing ripped off and crumpled on the floor, and they hadn't resurfaced for the next 36 hours.

By contrast, he's still as a statue tonight, fingers clasped tight together even as Jon floats toward the bed. Jon's already sweating at the armpits, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Everything about this feels slower, heavier, more deliberate. Flipped on its head. Then again, they hadn't had an audience last time, either.

"I really can just wait outside," Emily says, curled up on the recliner recently vacated by Lovett's unfolded laundry, chewing on a fingernail. She'd gotten up to leave at first, brushing a hand down Jon's arm as she passed him, but Lovett had shaken his head and pointed at the chair.

He shakes his head again now, lips turning down. "I'm not just going to sleep with your husband and expect you to wait around outside until he's done. You're not at a fucking doctor's appointment."

"Lovett," Emily says. "That's not what I meant."

"I need, I want you here," Lovett says, emphatic, and Jon can see the moment Emily relents from how her expression shifts, the way the little creases around her mouth relax.

"Okay," she says. Jon meets her gaze as steadily as he can, and she offers him a smile. Jon returns it, heart thudding in his throat, and swivels back toward Lovett on the bed.

"Come on," Lovett says, staring up at him, tongue flicking out. "Are you going to take your shirt off or what?"

Jon's hands slide down obligingly toward the hem of his henley. It only takes half a breath to lift it off and toss it aside, and he rubs his palm across the gentle swell of his belly. They see each other every day, but not like this. It's hard not to be self-conscious.

"Unfair," Lovett says, voice cracking.

Jon sends him a crooked grin, ears going hot. "Still got it?"

"Still remember how this works?" Lovett shoots back, eyes going wide as Jon knees onto the bed. "It's been a while."

"I remember," Jon says. He presses a palm against Lovett's pec through the thin material of his shirt, feels the flutter of Lovett's heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breath. This close, he's radiating heat, as if he's feverish. "Though it would help if you took your shirt off, too."

Lovett huffs, only twitches a little when Jon peels the edge of the comforter back to give him more wiggle room. Lovett's sweatpants are already tented at the crotch, and his face turns pinker as he watches Jon watch him. He doesn't make a move to take his clothes off, and he lets out a startled breath when Jon leans in to try and kiss him, jerks his head back and away. "We don't," he mumbles, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. "We don't have to—can't we just get it over with?"

Jon's stomach drops, and he does flinch this time. "Lovett," he says, swallowing thickly, scrambling for the right words. "I'm not going to just…"

There's a burst of sound from Emily's side of the room, and when Jon looks at her, he can hear the strains of a dreamy, bass-heavy song playing from her phone. "I thought I'd put on some mood music," Emily says, chin propped on her free hand. "Looked like you might need the help."

It takes Jon a minute to realize the shaking beneath him is Lovett laughing, the air between them suddenly lighter. Jon turns back toward him, reaching up to flick his thumb against the corner of Lovett's smile. "Like you said," Jon murmurs. "This isn't a doctor's appointment." Lovett's gaze sharpens as he exhales. "Let me take care of you, okay? I want to."

When Jon leans in again, Lovett tilts his head up to meet him.

 

 

The first time Jon kissed Lovett, they were at a house party in DC, halfway to drunk and bone-tired after an eighty hour work week. It'd been sloppy and unfocused and the best thing Jon had felt all month when Lovett kissed him back. That was all it took for Jon to want to keep doing it again and again, enough for Jon to brush aside any errant thoughts about _impropriety_ and _recklessness_ and _being his boss_.

Here, now, seven years gone on the other side of the country, Jon slots their mouths together, hears Emily's sharp intake of breath five feet away, Lovett melting underneath him and arching up against him, and feels his heart squeeze so tight he's afraid it might burst.

One of his hands wanders down to press against Lovett through his sweats, and Lovett makes an urgent noise against his lips, bucks up helplessly. "I got you," Jon says, scooting back to help Lovett out of his clothes, and Lovett honest-to-God _whines_ , hands reaching out to try and tug him close again. "Lovett, I have to—"

"I know," Lovett pants, wriggling out of his shirt, his curly hair mussed. "I just—I need—"

"I'm here," Jon says, yanking Lovett's sweats and his underwear off in one smooth motion, and then bends down to take Lovett into his mouth.

Lovett tosses his head back into his pillows and groans, long and deep and loud. He's hard and hot against Jon's tongue, already leaking at the tip. It takes a moment for Jon to adjust, rusty as he is, but he manages to bob down a little further, hollowing his cheeks out for more suction. Lovett's thighs clamp around Jon's ears, another moan wrung out of him, fingers scrabbling at his hair. "Jon," he gasps, and when Jon meets Lovett's gaze again, his eyes are suspiciously shiny, a pained look twisting across his face. "It's not enough. You know it isn't—"

Jon pulls off with a pop, mouth wet and tingling. Lovett tugs at the waistband of his jeans, fingers shaking too much to undo the button. Jon reaches down to do it himself, kicking his pants to the side and shoving his boxer briefs off too. He's half-hard already, and a couple dry jacks of his palm get him all the way there. "Where's—" he starts to ask, but Lovett's already flung his arm toward the bedside table.

Lube and condoms, already there. Jon takes a deep breath, lets it out all at once; Lovett must've known before tonight, must've been trying to hold off, must've tried to fix it himself. Always so fucking stubborn. That, more than anything, makes Jon want to hug him and strangle him at the same time.

He grabs the bottle of lube, gaze traveling back to the armchair. Emily's still watching, eyes big and round, Spotify playing quietly on her phone. She's pink too, almost as pink as Lovett is, biting her lip, knees tucked underneath her chin.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks, voice coming out husky. This isn't something he's thought about much, Emily watching him while he fucks someone else—fucks _Lovett_ —but it certainly will be now. Arousal kicks low in his stomach. He rips a condom packet open, rolls it on, haphazardly squeezes lube across his fingers before pressing one of Lovett's knees back and bring his hand down to Lovett's hole.

"You don't have to—ah," Lovett says, rolling his hips down as Jon slides his index finger up inside him. There's plenty of give already, and Lovett's eyes flutter closed briefly. "I—before you got here—"

"Jesus," Jon says, face burning, dick kicking in his hand as he palms himself again. Of course he had. "Okay, I—"

Lovett hooks a leg around Jon's waist, arms coming around Jon's neck, and reels him in. "No more talking," he says, brow furrowed with concentration, and then they're kissing again, Lovett sucking on Jon's tongue with enough fervor to power a small town. Jon fumbles above him, manages to right himself before he collapses all the way down, and guides himself toward Lovett's hole. He hisses as he sinks inside, and Lovett clenches tight enough around him that he chokes a little.

For a minute, all they do is breathe into each other's mouths. They're pressed so close together that Jon can feel Lovett's heartbeat hammering in doubletime, the soft rub of his chest hair in contrast with the sharp stubble on his chin. The strange feverishness of Lovett's skin is even more pronounced like this; Lovett always tends to run hot, but the only other time he's felt like this was—well. The last time this happened.

"Please," Lovett says, not quite a sob, but something like it. "Jon, fuck, please, you have to move." Jon hitches his hips up and pushes back in to the hilt, reaches down to wrap his palm around Lovett's dick. He's rewarded with another wet moan, Lovett mouthing uselessly at his cheek. Jon grits his teeth, teetering just on the edge of too much, too fast, and really starts trying to put his back into it.

Lovett's mattress groans beneath them, the sound of its squeaking commingling with the noises falling out of Lovett's mouth, the harsh pant of Jon's breath. Jon twists his wrist between them, jacking Lovett off in time with the thrust of his hips. His forehead is just beginning to drip when Lovett comes on a shout, eyes shut, making a mess of his own stomach.

He hears Emily gasp over the ringing in his ears, bites his lip so hard that it stings, and manages to keep himself from coming. Lovett's still clenching around him, barely come down from the high, when he pulls their hips flush again. "You gotta keep going," he says. It's hard to tell if the damp streaks on his face are from sweat or if he's actually crying a little now; either way, he looks desperate enough that any last vestiges of embarrassment have completely disappeared.

"Yeah," Jon says. He brushes his mouth across Lovett's temple, ignoring the ache in his back and the burn starting to build in his thighs, and thrusts inside him again, deep and slow. "Whatever you need."

 

 

Jon has had truly excellent marathon sex more than a few times in his life. The most recent of those experiences was in Italy after the wedding, two days after they took the train from Florence to Rome, in their room at the cozy bed and breakfast just on the river. It had felt revelatory to luxuriate in not having to be anywhere for the day, the languid summer breeze blowing in through the open balcony, sunlight dappling across Emily's shoulders.

Emily made ample use of Jon's mouth, among other things, and they'd only left the bed for bits of wine and cheese and, memorably, when housekeeping had tried to come in to clean because Jon forgot to hang the do-not-disturb sign on the door. Emily answered, laughing, wrapped in a sheet to send them away, and came back with something sweet and jammy for Jon to kiss off her lips.

Jon's trying to take his time with Lovett, trying to pace himself, trying to tread with care, but it's impossible to resist the sense of urgency threaded through the push and pull of their bodies. Lovett comes again too soon to be believed, face half-buried in a pillow. Jon slams a palm down next to his head and blinks moisture out of his eyes, willing himself back from the edge again.

"Alright?" he manages.

Lovett looks up at him through damp lashes. "Not remotely," he says, but the corner of his mouth jumps up when Jon wrinkles his nose. "Don't look like that. You're doing your best."

Jon clicks his tongue, irritation making the back of his neck itch, even though he knows Lovett's goading him on purpose. "My best, huh," he says, and slams into Lovett so hard that he lets out a startled hiccup and digs his fingers into the meat of Jon's bicep.

"That's it," Lovett says with feeling, eyes narrowing. Jon hooks his shoulders beneath Lovett's knees and folds him nearly in half, fucking him as hard as he can. The whole bed feels like it's going to shake apart, and Jon can't help the noises he's making, or the inexorable hurtle toward his own orgasm. He comes with a strangled grunt, panting against Lovett's cheek, his chin, the hollow of his throat. Manages to keep moving against Lovett for another minute or two, but the oversensitivity starts taking over like he was afraid it would.

He can't even imagine how they made it through last time, except that maybe the coffee and Red Bull had fueled him more than he remembered.

Lovett tries to keep Jon close, ankles locking behind his back. Jon can feel himself getting softer already though, a guttural sound torn out of his chest as he slides half an inch out.

"Lovett—"

A cool hand trails up Jon's spine, settles against his shoulder blade. When he looks up, focusing through the heady haze of pleasure and pain, Emily's standing next to them, hair pulled up into a ponytail, jeans abandoned on the floor. "Em," Lovett says, reaching out blindly, and she catches his hand, gives it a squeeze.

"Do you need—I can help. I want to help." She flashes Jon a brilliant smile, eyes crinkled. "Put me in, coach."

If Jon had breath left to laugh, he would. "Yeah, yes. Please." He tries to pull back, but Lovett's legs tighten reflexively around his waist. "Lovett, you have to let me—"

"Emily, you can't," Lovett says, wild-eyed, lips parted. "I don't—it's not going to—"

Whatever words he was trying to form die in his throat when she pulls away and lifts something off the bedside table: the harness to slip on over her underwear, sleek dildo already attached. She must've brought the box in from the kitchen when they were otherwise distracted. Another glance reveals the six pack of Gatorade, too, and Jon feels such a rush of tenderness and relief that he's afraid he might pass out.

"Jon," she says. They both turn to look at her, but she's gazing at Lovett, steady and sure. "Let me?"

 

 

"So you've done this before," Lovett says.

Jon's stretched out on the other side of the bed, skin sticking against the sheets. Emily's taken his place, palm braced against one of Lovett's knees, the other smoothing over his stomach before she curls it loosely around Lovett's dick, still hard, messy with sweat and jizz.

Lovett shivers. He glances at Jon, considering, and then back at her.

"Yeah, I have," Emily says. She blows a flyaway piece of hair out of her face, ducks close to Lovett's ear like she's telling him a secret. "Jon likes it," she murmurs, and Jon isn't a teenager anymore, couldn't get it up again this soon even if he tried, but he swears his body temperature jumps about ten degrees anyway.

"Oh," Lovett says, eyes darting toward Jon again, "oh," and when Emily twists her wrist, he comes in her palm, hips sputtering up.

Jon watches Lovett's eyelashes flutter, watches Emily settle between his legs, watches her lube herself up and sink in slow, pressing Lovett down into the mattress. She always looks beautiful, but she seems transcendent like this, tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, all her concentration whittled down to giving Lovett what he needs.

She nudges as far inside as she can go and Lovett chokes out another sob, the back of his hand curled against his mouth. Emily leans in and reaches up with her free hand, laces their fingers together, hips rocking faster.

"This okay?" she says, threadiness starting to creep into her voice. "It's working?"

Lovett nods roughly, knees framing her waist. Emily slides her palm across his sticky stomach and comes back to his erection, the corner of her mouth rising when he shudders beneath her. Jon twists onto his side, extends a hand to tuck another piece of hair behind her ear. Lovett's staring at him again when he pulls his arm back, and Jon can't help it, turns his head down to kiss Lovett's shoulder.

"We're here," he says, quiet in comparison to the labored sound of Lovett's breathing. Lovett hears it and smiles, small but real, and says, "I know."

 

 

The fever, such as it is, seems to break at last in the early morning, dawn sunlight just starting to break in through the gap in the curtains. They've traded off twice more by then, gone through four bottles of Gatorade and too many glasses of water to count in the interim. Emily pulls away from Lovett the last time, sticky and out of breath, and he finally winces and falls back against the bed, shaking his head when Jon reaches for him.

"I'm okay," he says, throaty and slurred, curling halfway in on himself. "I think—it might be over. For now, anyway."

Emily presses her palm to his forehead. "Yeah," she says, nodding for emphasis when Jon raises his eyebrows. A nervous expression flits across Lovett's face, like he's trying to figure out what should happen next. Looking for another opening to run, maybe. Before he can do much more than freeze, though, Emily ducks close and drops a careful, deliberate kiss to the corner of his mouth, sighing loudly. "You're so high maintenance, Lovett, geez."

"As if you didn't know that about me already," Lovett says, a raspy laugh wheezing out from between his lips. When Jon cracks another bottle of Gatorade open and presses it to his mouth, Lovett takes an obedient sip, too tired to protest.

 

 

Lovett's just dozed off, head in Emily's lap, when they hear the front door unlock and squeak open, Pundit yipping in the foyer; it takes Jon a minute to remember that Ronan's flight must've landed at LAX already. There's the telltale sound of a suitcase rolling across the floorboards, and then, before either of them can muster up the energy to move, Ronan's standing in the open doorway.

His dress shirt is hopelessly crumpled and his sleeves are rolled up, as if he'd come straight from the office. It wouldn't surprise Jon if he had. He surveys the wreckage of the bedroom, expression sanguine, eyes alighting on the remnants of the container of lube, the scattered empty Gatorade bottles, the damp washcloths drying on the bedside table.

"Glad you could make it," Emily says wryly, and Ronan snorts softly as he disappears into the ensuite.

Jon contemplates getting off the bed to see if he can find his shirt, but he's not sure if his legs work properly right now. The surreal quality of the last twelve hours is beginning to melt away, leaving the soreness in his limbs and clouded exhaustion in his head. They probably should've figured out how to change the sheets before Lovett fell asleep.

Ronan reemerges a moment later with a couple of fluffy bathrobes and a damp towel. "Thank you," he says, setting the bathrobes down and lightly dabbing towel against some residual splatter left on Emily's neck. She tilts her head back and smiles at him. He lets her take it, smiling back, and glances down at Lovett's serene face. "Thanks for taking care of him."

"It was our pleasure," Jon says. He winces at the twinge in his pelvis as he scoots toward the edge of the bed. Lovett stirs a little as Emily moves to slide his head onto a pillow, blinking blearily.

"Ronan," he croaks, reaching out.

Ronan relaxes as their hands tangle together. "Hey, Jonathan," he says. "I let the dogs out. Do not start singing the song." Lovett cracks a smile.

"Thanks, Ro," Emily says. "Go back to sleep, Lo." She eases off the mattress to start collecting their things.

"Stay," Lovett mumbles, attempting to sit up.

Jon pushes Lovett back down, fingers firm around his shoulder. His heart does a funny little dance, and Emily's fingers stutter at the fly of her jeans. "Ronan's here now," Jon tries, glancing at him, but Ronan's just smiling at Lovett, mouth curled up, oddly satisfied.

"I can see him too," Lovett says, sardonic bite soothed by the way he's staring at them, soft and tentative. "I just—I want you both to stay. Take the guest room. We can talk more later, but—" He lets out a short breath, eyes closing briefly, throat tight as he swallows. "Don't make me ask again."

Emily looks at Jon, gaze tremulous but clear. Jon thinks about the clench of Lovett's arms around his neck, the sweet press of his mouth and the level trust in his eyes. He thinks about Lovett holding Emily's hand, how he'd let her in. How Ronan must've known what would happen and had asked them to come anyway, without hesitation.

"Okay," he says. "We'll stay."

 

 

Jon wakes up to the smell of something burning. "Shit," he can hear Ronan saying, "shit, shit," and then the faint rumble of Lovett's laughter.

It's past lunch time already, early afternoon according to the clock on the bedside table. Emily's still fast asleep under the covers, bundled up in a pair of Lovett's sweatpants and an oversized shirt. Jon extricates himself slowly, splashes water in his face in the bathroom, and winds his way toward the kitchen. Leo sees him first, bounding up joyfully for head scritches.

"Morning," Ronan says. "Kind of." He's throwing open windows while Lovett sips at a mug of coffee at the dining table, Pundit dozing in his lap. There's a stack of slightly misshapen pancakes on a plate next to the stove and the sadly charred remains of what was probably bacon.

"Hey," Jon says, taking a seat next to Lovett and pouring himself a cup of coffee. "How'd you sleep?"

Lovett shifts in his chair, grimacing. His eyes cut away toward the bottle of syrup on the table. "As well as could be expected."

Ronan sets the pancakes down in front of them. "I'm surprised you had the ingredients for these in the house," Jon tries again, nudging Lovett's arm.

A smile flickers over Lovett's face, which is something. "Ronan made a grocery run while we were sleeping," he says, transferring one to his plate.

"Thought you all could use the pampering after yesterday," Ronan says, and Jon watches Lovett's expression change again, close off.

"Thank you, by the way," Lovett says after a long pause, too stiff, almost formal. "For helping, and staying. I know it was — a lot. You didn't have to."

"Lovett," Jon says, reaching out automatically. His hand lands on Lovett's wrist. It's an awkward angle for it, and Lovett jumps a little when they touch. Jon's head still feels too foggy, tongue dumb and useless trying to think of the right thing to say. _What are friends for_ feels too diminishing — it's not enough to encompass everything he feels.

"Don't be ridiculous," comes Emily's voice from the hallway, and Jon turns to look at her, hair mussed and glasses askew. Lovett freezes. Emily pads over, drops a kiss to Jon's temple and then leans in to press one to Lovett's too. Jon bites back a laugh at the way Lovett's eyes go wide, deer in the headlights, and then Emily's floating over to kiss Ronan's cheek too. "Did you burn the bacon?"

"Yeah, I'm out of practice," Ronan says, shrugging.

"Oy," Lovett says, sounding a bit more like himself. "I was _trying_ to apologize over here."

Emily and Ronan share a look, and then she meets Jon's gaze, steady as ever. "What for?" she asks.

Lovett squirms, stabbing a fork into his pancake. "For making you feel obligated to, you know, cross a boundary."

"I didn't feel obligated," Jon says quickly.

"We didn't help you out of a sense of duty, Lovett," Emily continues. "We did it because you needed us, and that's what you do when you love someone."

"But—" Lovett's face is turning red now, and he bites his lip.

"You aren't a burden, okay?" Ronan says, hand cocked on his hip. He makes a face at Emily. "I've been telling him, but he never listens."

"I know the feeling," Emily returns, long-suffering, and Jon can't help laughing this time, hand squeezing around Lovett's wrist.

"Hey!" Lovett says, spine straightening, so fired up that Pundit hops off his lap. "Look, I just — you didn't know what you were getting into, and I—"

"I'd say we knew exactly what we were getting into with you," Jon says, peaceably sliding one of the pancakes onto his own plate. "These look great, Ronan."

"Thanks, Jon," Ronan says, pleased.

Lovett lets out a sharp huff, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So what are we, then?" he demands, chin stuck out. "Me, and you, and you, and you."

They look at each other. The Sunday afternoon light is slanting in through the open windows, and Pundit and Leo are curled up on the rug, faces tucked close together. There's coffee and hot food on the dining table, and Emily's about to teach Ronan the art of not over-frying bacon, and maybe later they can go out and take the dogs for a walk.

Jon's heart thuds in his throat. "People who love each other," he says, knocking his knee against Lovett's beneath the table. "That okay with you?"

Lovett chews on his lip, turning it over in his head. "It's a start," he says at last, and it feels like the whole room lets out a sigh, the house relaxing with them. He shakes his head, hand curling up briefly against Jon's before pulling away. "Coffee?" he asks Emily, gesturing at the pot on the coaster.

"Thank God," Emily says with relish, accepting the mug Ronan passes her. Jon watches them putter around the kitchen, watches Lovett drown his pancake with syrup and go to town, and something settles in his chest and expands there, warm. He feels good. He feels home.


End file.
